Hi, I'm Ellie.
Ellie Voss. I live in Brooklyn with an orange tabby cat named Hemingway who has opinions about which clothes get tried on and which ones stay in the pile.
I used to work at a fashion magazine. Three years of chasing trends that expired before I finished writing about them. I quit in 2020 with a small savings account and a large collection of old clothes. Best decision I ever made.
Now I do freelance styling, curate vintage for three Brooklyn boutiques, and write this blog from my apartment in Gowanus.
Background
I didn't grow up around vintage. Nobody in my family collected old things. I just liked the way a 1970s shirt felt different from a new one. Heavier. Softer in some places. Like someone had already broken it in for me.
I bought my first vintage piece in 2018. A 1960s eyelet dress from a garage sale in Pennsylvania. Three dollars. I still have it. Still haven't worn it out.
The collection grew from there. Slowly at first. A jacket here, a pair of jeans there. Weekend trips to flea markets. Estate sales on rainy mornings. Thrift stores I drove past twice before finally pulling over.
By 2020, I had maybe 80 pieces. Enough that my closet couldn't close. Enough that friends started asking me to take them shopping.
I started saying yes.
The freelance work came next. Styling gigs for small editorials. Personal shopping for people who didn't want to buy new. Then the boutiques started calling. Now I do seasonal curation for three shops in Brooklyn. They trust my eye. I don't take that lightly.
I've never taken a class on vintage. Never studied fashion history formally. Everything I know came from touching things, buying things, ruining things, and learning not to make the same mistake twice.
I can date a 1970s Levi's jacket by the tag but I still can't sew a straight line on a machine. I know why 1950s cotton feels different from 1990s cotton but I've ruined three silk shirts trying to wash them at home. I'm not an expert. I'm just someone who pays attention.
Family — The Two-Legged and Four-Legged Kind
My human family lives in Pennsylvania. My mom is the one who taught me to look at price tags before I look at anything else. She doesn't understand why I buy damaged clothes on purpose. She also doesn't question it anymore.
My dad thinks my apartment smells like a thrift store. He's not wrong.
Hemingway is the other member of this operation. Orange tabby. Rescued from a shelter in 2021. He sleeps on my 1960s wool coat and has never once apologized for it.
He doesn't help with the blog. He does provide commentary during photo shoots by walking directly in front of the camera. Every time. Without fail.
What I Want You to Know
I started this blog because I couldn't find anyone writing the things I wanted to read. Not reviews of new collections. Not trend reports. Not "how to look expensive" lists.
I wanted to read about the stain that wouldn't come out. The hem that someone fixed badly in 1952. The jacket that smelled like a basement for two weeks before finally airing out.
I wanted to read about keeping things instead of replacing them.
So I started writing it myself.
This blog is for people who shop at flea markets and leave empty-handed sometimes. Who mend their own jeans even when the stitches come out uneven. Who believe the best clothes aren't new. They're just not done yet.
I won't tell you what to buy. I'll tell you what I bought and why. You can decide the rest.
The comments are open. I read every one. Hemingway doesn't, but he sits on my lap while I do.
If you have a question about a piece you found or a stain you can't get out, ask. I've probably ruined the same thing myself.
If you just want to tell me about the oldest thing in your closet, do that too.
— Ellie